An Honest Day's Work
by Abracadebra
Summary: Meaningful work isn't always honest work, is it? A Labor Day meditation on the kinds of work one man does and the stories he tells himself about what matters.


"… and we had to recite that 'Work' poem. The one by Henry van Dyke. Did you guys learn it too?"

It was a cool first Monday in September, and Hogan was enjoying a rare, relaxed evening of cards and chatter with his men. The Americans were regaling the rest of the team with reminiscences of returning to school in late summer.

"Learn it? It's seared into my brain," Kinch said.

"My mom said I used to recite it in my sleep," Carter said, twitching comically at the memory.

Hogan was gesturing energetically toward LeBeau and Newkirk. "See, it was the first thing we practiced when we got back to school. We had to say it at our opening assembly," Hogan said with a chuckle. Then he intoned:

_Let me but do my work from day to day,  
In field or forest, at the desk or loom,  
_

Soon Kinch and Carter joined in:

_In roaring market-place or tranquil room;  
Let me but find it in my heart to say,  
When vagrant wishes beckon me astray,  
"This is my work; my blessing, not my doom;  
_

Hogan and Kinch were doubled over with mirth as Carter rose to his feet to declaim the end of the first stanza:

_"Of all who live, I am the one by whom  
"This work can best be done in the right way."_

"That's the Protestant work ethic, right there," Hogan said with a grin.

"I thought you were Roman Catholic, Sir," Newkirk said.

"Doesn't matter. It's not about religion. It's about the belief in the value of hard work and the importance of self-reliance and perseverance."

"Ought to consider changing the name then, hadn't you?" Newkirk muttered. No one paid him any mind. LeBeau had bigger questions.

"This Labor Day of yours—we do not have this holiday in France, but we have International Workers Day on May 1. It is a celebration of workers and unions. Is it the same thing?"

Hogan wouldn't touch that topic with a 10-foot pole or, he added with a snicker to himself, a 9-foot Russian. He made a point of not discussing politics with his men. "Our Labor Day is more … general, LeBeau. More about respecting the value of work than about any particular organizations. And it marks the end of summer, too. What about England, Newkirk?" he asked.

"We don't have a holiday celebrating workers, Guv," Newkirk shrugged as he gathered up a round of winnings. "Work is work. It's something you do, not something you stop to celebrate. The labour unions make a fuss over May Day, but it's not a holiday, it's a political event."

Newkirk glanced up mischievously from his cards and continued. "That's labour with a 'u,' by the way. I've seen how you Yanks spell it, and it's just wrong. If you pronounce the word properly, you can hear the 'u.'" He dodged out of the way as Kinch threw a friendly punch, and ended up getting smacked upside the head by Carter instead.

"What was your first job, Colonel?" Carter asked.

"Me? Paperboy. My brother left for college when I was in eighth grade, and I took over his route. I covered about 50 houses and cleaned up on tips. What about you fellows?" Hogan asked.

"Shoeshine boy, when I was almost that age, Sir," Kinch said. "I tagged along with my uncle and hit all the banks and insurance companies on Jefferson Avenue. We did really well." He looked up at Carter.

"Well, I always worked on my grandparents' farm," Carter said. "But the first job I got paid for was shoveling snow. I might have been 11, I guess."

"I worked in my uncle's bakery from the time I was small," LeBeau said. "I know, you are very surprised. But when I was 15, I thought about being a jockey, and I took an afternoon job working in the stables at the Hippodrome so I could learn. You start by grooming the horses and mucking out the stalls. I stuck it out for a month, then decided I greatly preferred the smell of a bakery."

The men laughed heartily at that, then quieted down. "What about you, Newkirk?" Carter asked. "What was your first job?"

"Well, you know me, lads, I'm a proper lay-about," Newkirk said, attempting to dodge any personal revelations. "I drifted about, doing a bit of this and a bit of that."

What was work, after all, Newkirk mused. Being boosted through a loose window in a dark theater to pry open the door for a safecracker probably wasn't what Carter had in mind when he asked the question. Liberating food for three hungry little sisters and a sickly baby brother probably didn't qualify as work either, though it felt rather like it was. His friends, with their wholesome, decent jobs, couldn't possibly understand.

"There had to be a first job, Newkirk," Hogan prodded. "What was it?"

"Define 'job,' Sir," Newkirk replied.

"No answering questions with questions," Hogan said with a smile.

"Strictly speaking, that was a statement, Guv," Newkirk said, hoping to shake the Colonel off his trail.

"How do _you_ define work, Newkirk?" Hogan riposted.

Newkirk knew he was being bested, but he wasn't ready to give up yet. "A proper job, you mean? Where I worked regularly and got paid wages for it?" Newkirk inquired.

"What other kind of job is there?" Carter wondered.

"Well, there's … intermittent work where you get your whack…your divvy…" he said with a vague flutter of his hand, "… your piece of the action. That sort of job. Working on spec." My stars, how green could one man be, he thought. Carter had never done a dishonest day's work in his life.

"Just… start with the 'proper' job, Newkirk," Hogan said, with a smile on his face that said, "You have been cornered. Lie if you must, but answer, because I'll get the truth out of you eventually."

Newkirk bit his lip, then searched his friends' faces. Bloody hell. They were all so earnest looking—well, except for the Colonel, who looked like a hunting dog poised for the kill. He was going to have to respond. What could he say? Maybe a bit of truth wouldn't hurt. Smashing idea, actually. Hogan would never expect that feint from him.

"I was a _Shabbos goy_," he said.

"A what?" Carter asked, wide eyed.

"A… a _Shabbos_ goy. You know, I worked on the Jewish Sabbath for the Orthodox families on my street, doing the things they couldn't do."

"Like what?" Hogan asked, sounding halfway between baffled and fascinated, and looking unbalanced by Newkirk's brazen bout of honesty.

"Lighting fires and putting them out. Switching the lights on and off. Making tea. Lifting and moving packages. That sort of thing," Newkirk said.

"You got paid for that?" Carter marveled. "For switching lights on and off? With all due respect, Newkirk, that sounds ridiculously easy."

"Well, it wasn't easy," Newkirk said with some heat in his voice. "It was a lot of work. Sometimes it was messy. Sometimes it took hours to get everything done a family needed. And sometimes I didn't finish my rounds until quite late and had to be back in the morning, and I was still a little lad and it was dark outside and my Granda had died and couldn't come with me no more…"

Oof. He needed to stop right there. He had a policy of never answering questions that hadn't even been asked, and here he was, nattering on like he was Carter himself. It was one thing to come clean; it was another matter entirely to bathe in public.

"How old were you when you did this work, _mon pote_?" Louis asked softly.

"Ten when I started," Newkirk replied. "Some families paid me a shilling, some only thruppence, but I was glad to do it. You know, to help them. And I gave my earnings to me mum, though she made me keep sixpence of it for meself." Bloody Nora, he was doing it again. He silently warned himself to put a sock in it. His mates might start to think he was actually proud of helping people, and he couldn't risk that. They'd think he'd gone soft.

"You did it to help? _You_, Peter Newkirk, did it to help? Are we talking about the same Peter Newkirk?"

God Bless Kinch. His mate had offered a way to spin himself out of this mess he'd got himself into. A bit of swagger mixed with false humility would do perfectly.

"The very same," Newkirk replied. "Mind you, I got quite a bit out of it. This one family I worked for, they were tailors, see. And they taught me the basics. Of course, being the clever lad I am, I instantly mastered the fundamentals and moved on to sunnier fields…"

And with that, Newkirk was off and spiraling. He didn't mention his father forbidding him to work for the Levine family or throwing him out of the house when he refused to come to heel. Instead he spun a yarn about how a boy who had never exerted himself a day in his life if he could possibly help it stumbled from one peculiar, fascinating and sometimes illicit pursuit to the next. That boy would never have wanted to stick at home with his family and practice an honest trade, would he? No, of course not.

So what if he'd been working nonstop since he was a child, supporting himself since he was 15, and helping to support his large family for even longer. No one needed to know that. He had a job to do, and that job was to handle the team's dirtiest work with a cheeky grin and gritty determination. That was his proper place—thieving and lying for the greater good. Telling a tale that showcased his special talents while shrouding any suggestion of purpose or integrity was all in a day's work.

_Then shall I see it not too great, nor small,__  
__To suit my spirit and to prove my powers;__  
__Then shall I cheerful greet the labouring hours,__  
__And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall__  
__At eventide, to play and love and rest,__  
__Because I know for me my work is best. _

**Author's Note: **Happy Labo(u)r Day, U.S. and Canadian friends!

I had to memorize yards of poetry in elementary school, and "Work" by Henry Van Dyke was indeed the first thing we learned (and relearned, and then recited in unison at assembly) every September after returning to school in 4th, 5th and 6th grades. To say this bit of the Puritan work ethic was drilled into New York City public school students of a certain ago would be a gross understatement. Newkirk's **Shabbos Goy story** comes from my long 2018 story, "In the Name of the Father," chapters 6 and 8.


End file.
